Dance, Dance (then stop)

You probably all know the situation where someone you're not too into starts dancing with you, and to be polite you dance back for a song or two. Then you discretely say you're going to get a drink or go to the toilet or for a cigarette than you'll Be Right Back, Honestly. For the rest of the night, you avoid that person and act as if you cannot see them on the dancefloor. What really sucks is when you're that other person.

"Make the first move more often" is what Liam is told by his Brighton friends in great numbers, "to be bold and more confident." Before being told this tonight by Dougie, by Ronan, by Beca and Georgina and Luke my LGBSoc dad and even the guy who runs the Pop Tarts night at BabyLove and some old geezer who looks like Truman Capote, I had this in mind. So, while Georgie is out getting a cigarette and Beca and Ronan and I are on the dancefloor, I notice a striking young man who at first I decide is far too attractive for me. This person will never notice me, but as he catches my eye I smile anyway and he smiles back and continues dancing with his hags.

Still finding this guy rather attractive, I smile at him again and he smiled back prolonged and we start dancing together. Unfortunately the song isn't too good but we both seem resolved to presevere and I think he fancies me which is just as well cos I think he's hot and I decide I probably wouldn't mind taking him home one bit. I consider for a moment that he's probably got some great body and guys with great bodies don't care much for guys with very average, boring bodies, but I don't let this insecurity show and a much better song comes on which is just as well. He's not a great dancer as far as I can tell but it's ok because in that is the encoded message that he's a fairly reserved, straight-acting guy who's not going to embarass me when he inadvertently meets my staircase buddies or want to overstay the morning lie-in time if he does inevitably (or so I thoguht) come home with me. And yeah, he's hot, and I'm chuffed that as far as I can tell someone I think is attractive seems to be into me for once and it's the only time that gay clubbing isn't an absolutely abysmal failure for me.

Except it is, because he grabs my shoulder and says in my ear in a sexy, manly voice that he'll be right back and those are the only words I have ever heard him utter. Later, he returns with his hags, and I dance nearby him again to get his attention but it seems as if his eyes are trying their best not to meet mine and he and his hags walk off after a song or two. I am instantly upset - not to the point where I want to cry, but only because he is symbolic not of one guy or one shag but every guy who I rightfully am otherwise too afraid to go over to because they will not fancy me and they will not want me and they will only reject me and leave me alone, on my own, while everyone vaguely attractive couples off. I rub my eyelids as if to soothe a coming headache and then I'm a bit better and dance with extra enthusiasm as if to say "Fuck him" but it really gets to me because I really did want to fuck him.

I spend about an hour telling Luke how hideous I feel I am because no one wants me at any club, not here nor in Brighton nor presumably any city in the world. All the uglies are macking and it's sickening and I'm not getting with ANYONE which means I'm uglier than them and I stop to despair at how many complete strangers I must sicken purely by existing in their vicinity. How much kinder they are than me because they never seem to tell me how they really feel about me. I contemplate going to Bridge and picking up some braindead Oxford Brookes girl because even though I'm not horny I feel lack of sex actually chilling my veins. I have ice blood from lack of sex. I have also been (officially) single since January and "more or less" single (not seeing anyone) since like June. I also contemplate becoming a Roman Catholic priest and letting my stifled eroticism come out in poetry about Jesus. Who woudn't like to infer the act of fellatio to the messiah? I wonder if I'd have been happy if I was intellectually starved back home with more willing, forward guys but then I remember I was just as despondent on the club scene there as I am here.

Doug and Costas mention going clubbing in London on Saturday and while it originally sounded like such a great idea, I'm no longer too sure because I realise how gay clubbing and I do not get along and by 2am I always feel like I want to die. My standards are too high - higher than me - and the guys I go for always go for guys even better looking than they are which means my only option is to go for guys uglier than me, which I'm not sure exist and if they do I'm not certain I am guaranteed action there. Nor do I want it. Sex is only really good when it's someone I really care about or someone I am attracted to on an extreme level. Half-measures suck. Sorry, imaginary Brookes person. Sorry, Jesus. In the end, I give a strong maybe and odds are I will go to Heaven or Soho or wherever with the intention of a good night but end up asleep on the streets of London till an early train, probably actually crying.

I get home at 3am and write a blog in which I can't be assed to change anybody's names. I'm not sure how to make Facebook recognise the publication of my blogs but I'll figure it out. I wonder if I should allude to the night's other subplot: the guy with the mixed signals. Well basically, I don't know what to think. Do I interpret certain words as flirting, or certain actions? I can't be more explicit in a blog... but I wish he'd more explicit with his words. Or, with his nudity. I'll settle.

Thanks for reading my extra-gay, extra-uncensored edition of Liam's depressed rantings. I don't normally write so unambiguously about my motives. It's kind of Brat Packy. The novelists, not the actors. Although, Molly Ringwald...